


Anemoia

by Nagisa Umibe (Lunetta11)



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, First Meetings, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Alteration, OCanon, Original Character-centric, Original setting, Romance, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 13:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20601179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunetta11/pseuds/Nagisa%20Umibe
Summary: Memories expanded before her as a sepia-colored horizon, wrapping her lone figure in a hazy mist of reminiscence. Reaching a trembling hand towards the distance, her glassy eyes beheld the faraway mirage where moments of the past were.She believed everything was meant to be. The joy of meeting, the pain of love... the grievance of separation. She wanted to believe that it was the best course, that such is the sacrifice that one must be willing to go through to protect those who are dear to them.Embracing the memories within her soul, as a tear fell from the eyes that were reflecting the colors of the horizon, she held them close to her heart—fragments of the bygone days.





	1. Trouvaille

The rustling leaves, the quietly blowing wind, and the downpour of light. We were wrapped within the dizzying heat of summer, and everything around us cast shadows that imprinted the Sun’s harsh embrace. I swam through the sea of people, some of them have been reduced to tired husks whose movements, whose lives were dictated by the flow of society. Cicadas could be heard from a distance, tirelessly singing its ear-ringing song that marked the arrival of the season.

The area was dense with passing humans. Their voices, buzzing through the air, mixing, resounding, lost within the pool of unrecognizable echoes, were akin to a strange, almost hypnotic harmony amidst the heat. Too, there were a mix of expressions found amongst this flow, with some beaming with excitement and happiness, and some with not so much an enthusiasm for a single thing.

As one who have chosen—on my own accord—a life that revolves around the Foundation that I have grown to call home, this scenery was unusual, if not a bit strange. While I indeed am fond of being in touch with the outside world, it is with nature, where the splendor of the rising dawn can be appreciated to the fullest and the crisp tunes of the birdsong can be heard clearly.

This place, on the other hand, was an ocean of construct and humans built by our society as if a way of declaring our superiority over the course of nature. I found it oddly sentimental, the methods with which humanity attempted to leave its marks throughout the planet’s surface—ironically destructive, but robust with the ceaseless needs to survive and advance.

I was in my second year of middle school, and I had just celebrated my fourteenth birthday not so long ago. Our academy, known for its far-reaching connections, is quite fond of introducing its students to the environments outside of its own; museums, historical sites, temples, and even other academies have become subjects of our visitations in the past. This, too, was one of such occasions, in which we strengthened the relation between two educational institutes by exposing the students to events currently celebrated by the respective places.

I have heard of the Rikkai University-Affiliated Middle School in the past, of their prestige and achievements—particularly in the competitive tennis field in which they shone the brightest. Indeed, there was something in the way the figures clad in Rikkai’s uniforms brought themselves about; how sure their steps were, how their eyes glimmered with ambitions and aspirations that belie their youth. Perhaps in part due to the annual theatrical event they were currently holding in multiple locations, the students moved about the school site in hastened motions, as if anxious to keep up with the ticking of moment.

A sense of delay washed over me as the scenery around me rushed about, leaving me in my own pace. Navigating through, the world passed by in such a surge that it invoked the sense of existing in a different flow of time. The cicadas were singing still, their melodies faintly slipping through the wall of human voices. The Sun, so blinding its light was, continued to enwrap the land beneath it with an almost unforgiving heat. The seconds that elapsed as I absentmindedly strolled the area felt as though they were moving slowly.

In such dizzying moment, they spread before me: the myriad of colors that seemed to bloom forth with vigor amidst the harshness of summer. Their petals dancing as the quiet wind brushed past them, I couldn’t help but be entranced by the sight of something so delicate, yet enduring. It felt as though I was invigorated by the scenery that despite the dampness of my temple and the weakness in my feet, a smile subconsciously came upon me as I approached them.

Some things blossomed under the grandiose of admiration and adoration; some silently, discreetly, with the sky above them the only witness to the breathtaking moment of their full bloom. Though mesmerizing they were, there was a sense of solitude that perpetuated among the back garden of this academy, home to hundreds of thousands of flowers that flourished so fervently. Even the visitors that came to this area only stopped momentarily to take photographs before turning away, leaving without so much giving another glance to the scenery.

Crouching before them, I reached towards a cluster of hydrangea. Their tender petals, filled with the sentimentality of June, were akin to a splash of lovely purple shades—my palm their canvas. So absorbed in admiring them I was, that I barely noticed when a figure approached me.

“Hello,” called a gentle voice.

Turning towards where it came from, I was met by a pair of warm brown irises that mirrored the gentleness of the flowers before me. They were framed by dark navy, slightly wavy locks, and the young man to whom they belonged to was clad in the summer uniform of Rikkai’s middle school section. A smile was plastered upon his visage, one that felt genuine and welcoming. Perhaps as a gesture of cordiality, he crouched beside me, leveling his line of vision to mine.

Affection comes in many shapes; at times it hides within the harshness of an honest advice, and, at another, it emerges in delicate gestures that can be easily missed. The way he placed his eyes upon the flowers took me aback, for I have never seen a sentiment so raw be expressed by someone of our age towards something that is often regarded as insignificant by others.

“Please pardon me for disturbing you,” the young man said as he reached to touch the hydrangea. “You looked so entranced by the flowers that I feel bad for calling out to you.”

True, a hint of regret glinted on his earth-colored eyes. 

“The flowers are lovely,” I replied whilst returning a smile of my own. “But their strength is enviable. The sweltering season is exhausting me quickly, and yet… the flowers managed to flourish this far despite their fragility.”

“I’m happy that someone thinks the same of them,” he said. “They might be short-lived, but they blossomed with all their might until the time their petals wilt. In a way, their ephemerality truly leaves a long-lasting impression.”

I inadvertently chuckled; listening to his response, a part of me swelled with happiness. “I have never heard of someone saying such thing about a flower. Are you perchance the one that has been caring for this garden?”

He paused, turning towards me with a curious gaze. “Indeed, I am. But how can you tell?”

“The way you look at the flowers,” I replied. “This might sound silly, so promise me that you won’t laugh…” Instead of verbally responding, he beamed his now-familiar gentle smile, giving me reassurance. “The way you look at them—it’s almost as if you are in love. One who holds such affection for the flowers must have been intimate with the way they bloom and persist.”

Silence befell us, and the young man’s eyes that were directed towards me widened. A split second later, he let out a small, melodious chuckle—breaking the quietness. Flustered, I spoke, “I-I’m sorry. What I said was ridiculous.”

“No, not at all!” he quickly responded. “‘In love’... is it? In a way, you are right.” Brushing his fingers softly upon the surface of the petals, he continued, “If such feeling can be called love, then I have been in love since the moment I laid my eyes upon them years ago. It’s not a bad sentiment.”

How mysterious. He appeared delicate, and each of his movements permeated with gestures of sensibility. Yet for someone to openly display their affection towards something with an almost childish fervor, unafraid, raw…

“To think that I haven’t introduced myself… My name is Yukimura Seiichi, and I’m currently in my second year of middle school. May I know yours, miss?” Now standing, he offered a hand towards me, never without his gentle smile.

—he truly was akin to a flower, the graceful way he brought himself about and emanated a calming, reassuring air; a flower-like person.

I gratefully accepted, reaching towards him, letting him pull me up. “Shion,” I replied. “My name is Kamiyama Shion.”

I have always believed that there is a deeper meaning to every meeting. We connect, link, and attach ourselves to others in what might have been the machinations of something unseen. Our young minds were filled with only excitement for possibilities, and never the pain that might come with them. For that reason… in that fleeting moment, the tranquil summer of that day left its mark; a trouvaille that came, rested upon our hearts, and refused to depart since.


	2. Raison d'Être ~ Prologue

It was a sepia-colored dream; a distant memory diluted by longing that tried to push itself forward in an attempt to ascertain its importance. By the glass windows that invited the downpour of morning light I had danced, my little feet joyous and my mind buoyant. As a child, I have been enamored with the world of ballet, courtesy of my mother’s own experiences with it. While I was nurtured through my parents’ strict counsels, there were times where they would allow me to roam my passion freely.

I was but their little ballerina that lived in the bliss of ignorance, under the protection of our home. Though I no longer remember the details of its rooms and corners, I still remembered the way with which the gentle warmth of dawn entered its space, or the mystical way the breeze swayed the thin, long curtains into an ephemeral dance. I remembered the meticulous way the furniture and everything else were placed; methodical, efficient, with a clear purpose. It seemed like each of us, too, held a clear purpose for our being, though mine was less of my parents’ grim resolution and more of an existence that brought comfort to them.

We lived in a home that found its foundation not in love, but in the constancy of commitment and principle. My father was a politician that fought for many; among them his ideals and convictions. My mother was an activist that nurtured; striving for a world where oppression is but a concept. They both dreamed for a future that even I thought was impossible, so far-reaching and full of hindrances their path was. They nevertheless struggled for it, giving everything they had—time, possessions, and even parts of themselves—to achieve the unachievable.

And they lost everything because of it.

It was a distant memory, with a single adolescent girl the only thing left of the outcome. To this day I still wondered of them—of the dreams they saw in their final slumber, and if their little ballerina was somehow there with them. When they passed away, parts of me had gone with them. Perhaps parts of them, too, were imparted onto me, and their dreams continued to live within me as fractions of reminiscence.


End file.
